Paint
by Songbird's Tune
Summary: She's not prepared for this. She works in customer service – answering complaints and soothing egos. She's no therapist and certainly doesn't know how to deal with PTSD and a wall of guilt. But when a ghost turns up in her flat with a metal arm looking for his past, she and her Aunt cannot turn him away. STORY PLACED IN CRYOGENIC STASIS DUE TO AUTHOR FIGHTING HYDR- er GLOBE-HOPPING
1. Setting the Scene

**I set the scene**

_A journey of a thousand miles must begin with a single step. – Lao-Tzu  
_

Beginning. Middle. End.

Every story has one – don't they? Yet the stories we find beneath the covers of books are different to the ones we find in real life.

For one thing, they aren't as clear cut. Real life has a thousand conflicts, a book has only a handful.

And beginnings … beginnings in books are a clear thing – they start at chapter one, the first word. That first line

Beginnings in real life are often difficult to define or put one's finger on. Often they can creep up on you, completely unawares. Sometimes they can start with a boom, other times as a soft whisper in your ear.

My beginning – or the beginning of this tale I'm going to relate to you, was quite easy to spot. Or perhaps it wasn't.

For one of the main figures in it, the story began with one word – Bucky. But he didn't remember that for a while.

For me, it began with walking into my living room.

Every beginning is different, isn't it? Even for those in the same story.

Middles are a muddle – a thousand dissimilar threads in a confusing tangle. They often seem like the end – the very, very End. But they aren't. The darkest hour precedes the dawn, as the saying goes. For my middle, I remember anguish and the wish to lift a burden that wasn't mine to shift. But I guess that was my Aunt's wish as well, though she was never one to express it in so many words.

Endings … ah, but I mustn't spoil mine, though I might say that it was a bittersweet one, which is both the best and worst type of ending.

I ought to set the scene a little – hadn't I?

"Secret Government Organisation Uncovered" was one of the more unimaginative newspaper headlines in those weeks. "Spies Among Us" was another.

The world for those employed by S.H.I.E.L.D was tipped upside down and everyone else thoroughly enjoyed reading about them. Though some experienced a terrible sense of paranoia and panic – ("Big Brother: A Reality" ran the Daily Bugle) – others found the existence of a James Bond-esq type organisation was absolutely with-no-doubt-about-it _awesome_.

("Awesome Sauce!" was the title of a post in one of the more popular blogs, followed by the sub-header of: "… and they had _gadgets _too_!_").

I found it interesting reading – who wouldn't? A world of espionage and agents and secrets had landed in our laps and we hadn't had to pay a single dollar for it. I mean – who knew that the parasitic (and terrifying) Hydra had _organised _the Starks' death? Poor Tony Stark. Poor, poor Tony Stark.

And then the list of all those who were going to be killed (for the good of humanity. Yeah, right. The good of humanity my _foot_) by Hydra was published by one intrepid blogger and those who were on it were equal parts frightened and proud.

My brother was one of them. I was the one who was frightened and he was the one who was bursting with pride (he _knew _he was intelligent and brilliant, he told me over the phone. I informed him that his PhD in Electrical and Electronic Engineering rather pointed in that direction and he needn't have to rely on a death-warrant to confirm it).

But forgive me, I'm wandering from my purpose.

While the world was finding the database and history of S.H.I.E.L.D and Hydra fascinating, my Aunt sat in her comfortable chair and knitted a jumper for Philip and a pair of thick, woollen socks for me. Hers was a peaceful existence – until her door was knocked on one evening and she shuffled in those big slippers of hers to open it.

Ready for a bit of a shocker? My Aunt is actually my mother. My adopted mother, that is. She and her husband fostered me – even had a hand in naming me (Ida, they named me. After Aunt's own aunt). I grew up calling them Aunt and Uncle and when I was officially adopted, the names stuck.

My younger brother is the biological child of Aunt Becky and Uncle Scott and lives several states away, though his presence is frequently felt by the often uttered request to forward his post (which he never got around to sorting out).

Every day, come rain or shine, I trot down four flights of stairs and catch the bus which takes me away to my very lively job of angry customers and constantly ringing phones.

Every evening, at five o'clock, I leave the office and its insults and complaints behind ("I ordered pink – _pink! _This is _salmon _coloured!") and return to our cosy little flat.

But one day (or once upon a time, if you prefer your stories to begin that way) I came home. And my Aunt wasn't alone.

There was someone else sitting next to her, looking down with empty eyes.

And that, _that _was where my story begins. For everyone.


	2. Part One: Jury: Chapter One - Blue Paint

**Part One: Jury**

**Blue Paint**

_While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,  
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.  
`'Tis some visitor,' I muttered, `tapping at my chamber door -  
Only this, and nothing more.'_

– _The Raven, Edgar Allan Poe_

Once upon a time … it all began.

But before a beginning, there must come an ending – the End of What Came Before. The End of Normalcy, in my case.

I'll tell you about it – take you there with me, so that you can breathe the same, ordinary air as I did then, feel the same, ordinary wind rustle through my hair and leave the office with the same, ordinary sigh of relief that I always gave.

And then, over the threshold of home we'll step and the ordinariness of our shared day and my life will simply go 'poof'. Together we'll watch as 'normal' is remade and redefined so that it has as much to do with the former way of things as a cow does a comet.

Ready?

There are approximately two and half flights of stairs which separate me from freedom. As my feet – attired in sensible low heels – take each step, I feel as though I'm shedding the stress of the day and leaving Mrs Harper and her shrill requests for a refund behind me. For three hours she bounced from me to Amy and back to me again. Some people don't understand the meaning of a politely phrased 'no'.

I think I'll be replaying our (many) conversations in my dreams, mashing them up into one weary, repetitive record: "_No, ma'am, I'm afraid that as you have had the product for the past two years and therefore exceeded the guarantee- ma'am, it doesn't matter how much it cost y- The fact that you ripped it doesn't- it isn't a fault of the product ma'am, riding a motorbike in priceless- I'm afraid I can't ma'am. Yes, you may speak to my manager. My name is Ida. Yes, I'm aware it's old fashioned; I wasn't consulted on my nam- Yes, ma'am. Good day, ma'am."_

The very last step I take with a bounce and then it's through the grimy, glass doors and out into the bliss of honking horns, whizzing cars and rushing pedestrians whose troubles with such and such product aren't poured into _my_ ear.

A single sigh – quick and short – and I'm away.

My steps are quick because, really, I don't want to miss my bus. But quickened steps don't stop me glimpsing the headlines - black and grim against grey paper - as I walk by a newsstand.

"THIRD THREE YEAR OLD MISSING. THE KID-NAPPER STRIKES AGAIN?" is written in exactly the same font that proclaimed the marriage of the 'king and queen' of Hollywood, yesterday. I stop and walk back to get a closer look at a face of impish innocence. Missing. Poor kid. I wonder what horrors you are enduring.

I'd better go though, or I'll miss my bus. The walk home isn't the most pleasant one I could think of and I'd rather avoid it. The wind whips my hair into my face and I remove the chestnut strands from my line of vision as I leave the musty scent of newspapers behind me.

Problems with short hair? I could list twenty of 'em. Not the least is the constant mystery of disappearing hair clips. Though that's has more to do with my faulty memory rather than my hair length.

As soon as I get home I'm logging onto the S.H.I.E.L.D expose blog (the _Buckler_) and reading the latest findings which are presented by the hard working bloggers in a nice, coherent manner. They always link their source material and I like viewing the original documents as well as their take on things.

Hmm, wonder if S.H.I.E.L.D would be able to find the missing kids. We'll never find out now.

A taxi whizzes by, faster than the rest (amidst many a honking of the horn), and I'm reminded once again that I really shouldn't dawdle. Night is drawing closer, and and the streetlights will be on soon.

On the bus I dig into my purse and recover the book I'm reading, it's a book of poems. Philip has been ribbing me on my usual reading material (thrillers, romance and detective novels) and has demanded that I read 'higher' things to improve my intellect.

I haven't read Poe since high school, but find his 'the Raven' more fascinating than I did back then. I've got my own back on Philip by reciting (or writing) the line of 'quoth the raven, nevermore' every time he asks a question. And sends me an email. And makes my phone let out an obnoxious 'ping' with a message. Childish? Yes – very. Satisfying? Oh _yes_.

I even wrote it on his mail.

Kipling's 'If' keeps me going all the way home. I speak it in my mind, mouthing the words and feeling the rhythm of the thing rise up and down. I've read it three times by the time the bus stops with a hiss of the breaks.

It's my stop and a hasty scramble to get the book into my purse and myself off the bus.

My key into the door, a quick check for mail and then I'm climbing the stairs. The same ones which I hurried down this morning seem to have grown in height. I _wish _they'd get the elevator sorted. But – what am I thinking? It's been broken for a year now. I've complained four times already and now I simply can't be bothered to send another complaint.

Besides, I tell myself as I huff ever upwards, it's good exercise. And I need to exercise as (and here a note of self-condemnation creeps into my thoughts) I never go to a gym, much less belong to one.

Finally. At last. At _long _last, I've reached the top and am facing our door with its peeling blue paint and tarnished golden letters proclaiming our flat number (the '2' of our twenty-three is tilting downwards. I really must fix that).

A key in the lock and I'm pushing the heavy door open.

"Aunt Becky, I'm home!" I announce in a jaunty fashion, dispelling the lingering fear that one day I might return home and find her, find her … well, it doesn't bear thinking.

But she doesn't reply and my throat seems to develop a lump and instead of taking off my light green coat and hanging it up, I simply drop my purse onto the hall floor and open the door to our living room.

And there she is, sitting on her comfortable black chair with her knitting needles in still hands. Her face is turned, but when the door opens she looks at me and gives me a small smile. Wrinkled lips pull back to reveal a single tooth and her eyes look over bright and her face, pale. But she is the very best sight I've seen all day and I start to smile back when I see the man sitting next to her.

He's sitting, leaning on his arms with elbows on his knees. His jacket is a brownish colour and a baseball hat is lying neglected on the floor.

He looks like a down and out – what with the beginnings of a beard and the short greasy hair hanging over his face. But then, he could be at the very peak of fashion. Fashion is very hard to follow these days.

But the question that conquers all others is: What is he doing _here_? Followed closely by: Who is he?

He gives me a glance – using the very least amount of effort he needs to do so – and I'm met with eyes which look … empty.

I shiver - and it's not a _good _shiver (the 'my-favourite-author-has-_finally_-published-the-sequel' kind). It's more of a shocked reaction to what I see in his eyes. They aren't empty, after all.

They are hard to describe. The eyes of a wounded animal, perhaps. Or maybe it's the look of someone who has had the world crumble down around him. They look shocked and withdrawn.

But at the same time they have a … nothingness about them. A _lethal _nothingness. Strange, that.

The moment passes, his eyes dip down and settle on the floor and Aunt Becky is speaking: "Ida dear, I'd like you to meet-" and here her voice trembles (not much, but enough for me to feel anger towards whoever _dared _to cause it) "-your Uncle. Uncle Bucky."

_Did you see it? Did you see the 'poof' as the wisps of an ordinary life vanished? I didn't – not until my bruised and battered body lay on a cold, metal floor and I was left alone (so very alone), was I able to lay my finger and say 'here - here it ended, yet here ..._

_... it also began'_

* * *

_**A/N:**_I originally planned to post this chapter up at the weekend, but thought that maybe it would be better to celebrate the beginnings of this tale with a _double _posting. So – here it is. I would like to thank every one of you who has reviewed, favourited (is that a word?) and/or followed. I only hope that you enjoy this adventure along with me.


	3. Chapter Two - Green Paint

**Green Paint**

_Well, shave me down and call me a mole rat; you've found another mammoth! - Sid the Sloth_

Here are three facts about myself:

1. I own an old, beaten up green van which is always at the mechanic's

2. I loath white chocolate but adore black

and

3. I don't much like surprises

So when Aunt Becky says:_ "Ida dear, I'd like you to meet your Uncle. Uncle Bucky." _I receive an unpleasant jolt of surprise but I'm not given any time to respond, for she speaks again: "And would you go and put the kettle on. Bucky," there is a certain hesitance in her words, "what kind of drink would you like? Tea? Coffee? Water?"

He raises his head and stares at her. "I don't know."

I'm certain a frown wedges itself on my brow. How … strange. Well, the whole situation is _beyond_ strange but not knowing you preferred beverage is _quite_ strange. But then, he may just be indecisive. Or then again he may genuinely not know his favoured drink which is _rather_ strange and … I'm rambling.

"Coffee," he says suddenly. Abruptly. "I'll have coffee."

The question of 'how do you take it?' hovers on my lips but Aunt Becky is giving me a warning look, so I simply turn and go back into the hall to the kitchen, fighting down the urge to tower threateningly over them both and oversee their conversation like one of those gangster bodyguards.

… but as I'm not wearing a black suit _or _sunglasses, I can't do it without looking ridiculous, so getting the coffee is my only option.

I'll give him a black coffee, I think as I fill the kettle and switch it on. He doesn't look like the type who has milk – I imagine a bitter black would do him nicely. With the kettle on and a cup ('Don't worry, be happy' painted on the side, along with a bright yellow smiley face – a gift from Philip) ready- No. I'd better change that. It doesn't quite seem to fit him.

The cup is exchanged for a plain white one and the instant coffee is mixed with boiling water. Will he take sugar? I'll give him one. No, no I won't.

My mind is numb, yet racing at the same time. A paradox. Two actually: one, how can my mind be numb yet full of questions? And two, if this is Uncle Bucky, why does he look much, _much _younger than his younger sister?

Paradoxes. Why can't life be simple?

When I walk back into the living room, I have a cup of black coffee on a tray with a little, ceramic jug of milk and some lumps of sugar perfectly balanced in a little pyramid. I try hard not to allow my frown and not a little amount of fear onto my face.

What if Aunt Becky has been conned by- I look at his face and shove a stool towards him with one foot. The magazines (_The New Yorker_ and one of the many home owner ones: "Chic Bathroom Flooring" it proclaims) slide off and I set the tray down.

No. It isn't that.

"So … " I say, suggestively. Come on, Auntie, give me something to work with – you can't just say that this man who looks at _least _as young as Philip is your long dead brother without a little explanation.

But she doesn't say anything. Rather, she smiles at 'Uncle Bucky' and tells him how she and Scott named me after Aunt Ida – can you remember her? she asks.

He looks at her and frowns. No. He can't.

He stirs his coffee and takes a hesitant sip. It's like he doesn't know what to do with himself. I sit down next to him on the couch (maintaining my distance – but not too far from Aunt Becky) and try not to be nervous.

"So – where have you been?" I ask him.

He sets his cup down and watches me. His eyes are almost … haunted (perhaps I imagine this – I'm better at reading voices than faces) and even his silence is disquieting.

I swallow, stare at his gloved hands instead of his face and pursue my line of questioning – Aunt Becky's words are far too absurd to be a reality. _Surely._

"We, er, I was always told that you died in the war."

He still looks at me.

I've got a lump in my throat and it ain't moving.

"Okay. Um. Have you- I mean were you, er-" This is ridiculous. "Were you, er, iced?" My voice rises at the end, going up a pitch. I clear my throat and rush hurriedly on. "Like Captain America?"

Captain America.

That gets a reaction. But it doesn't look like he wants to answer it. "Maybe."

"Bucky is going to stay with us for a while." Aunt Becky announces, stopping me from questioning him further. "He's been away and now it's time for he and I to get properly acquainted." The knitting needles clink as she drops them, leans over and pats his knee. "Letters can only go so far – I've still got all yours, Bucky. Perhaps you might take a look at them later."

He is grateful for that. I don't know how I know this. Perhaps it is the look he gives her; a quick glance, but it is there – the gratefulness, I mean.

I begin to feel distinctively out of touch.

"And we'll have to look through the photographs. I've got a few albums. You sent me quite a few, you know. You always looked like you had a marvellous time, though I don't suppose you would have told me if it wasn't true."

We are silent and the clock ticks away, and suddenly I feel absolutely tired – by work and paradoxes. And my Aunt's acceptance of a paradox. And my small, niggling feeling that there might be truth in the paradox sitting on the same couch as myself (I haven't read all those S.H.I.E.L.D. files for nothing, you know).

"I _think_," I say slowly and with deliberation. "That it might be nice to have something to eat. The supper is in the slow-cooker – it's chicken," I address, er, Uncle Bucky (innocent 'till proven guilty perhaps?). "I hope you like it though I suspect that I put too much chili in it. If you are staying here then you need a place to sleep – haven't got any bedding with you have you? Sleeping bags? Pillow?"

"No," he says quietly. "I haven't."

"Right. Yes. Okay then …"

"He'll have your room." Aunt Becky has placed her glasses on her nose and looks at me over the top of them.

My eyebrows shoot upwards and then I look at Uncle Bucky- that's ridiculous, even if he _is _my Uncle, I am _not _calling a man who looks a little older than my younger brother my Uncle.

I'll call him Bucky.

If he _is _Bucky.

Perhaps we need to have some DNA testing done. Or maybe the photographs will prove that it is truly he – James Buchanan Barnes. But for now, I can smell the chicken and I'm going to need to prepare my room.

It appears that _I _will be sleeping on the couch.

I bite down a bit of the annoyance at being displaced. Love your neighbour and all. Though I suppose in this case it would be 'love your long-lost (possibly not, and if so revert back to 'neighbour') Uncle as yourself.

Do unto others.

Would I want to sleep on an old, floral couch which smells faintly of spilt peppermint tea and musk? No, no I would not. He can have my room then, and I'll be left with a peppermint and musk feeling of virtuousness.

The chicken stew smells delicious and great burst of steam spirals upwards as I open the lid. Three bowls are filled, and I take two in to Aunt Becky and Bucky. Ha. That rhymes. Almost. Wonder what Poe would make of it ('quoth the raven, nevermore', no doubt).

Aunt Becky takes hers and I leave her telling Bucky of the miracle of Philip's birth ('I was rather old, the doctors said that it was _quite _impossible and I had given up all hope of a biological child when suddenly … out popped Philip. Though of course, it wasn't so _very _sudden. You should have seen Scott's face when I told him …').

She's talking to him. Trusting him.

And he's listening to her, watching her carefully, almost as if she's throwing him a life line. One that is … confusing him?

(You know what? I utterly despise paradoxes).

She's not senile – at least, she's weathered remarkably well for her age; still as bright as a button. Only yesterday did she tell me that she wouldn't be surprised if Philip wasn't part of the whole S.H.I.E.L.D palaver (her words, not mine) I told her that he was far too lazy to do such a thing, and besides, his fiancée wouldn't let him.

She snorted and said that his fiancée had as much observational skills as a rock and wouldn't be able to tell if he was 'one of those alien invaders, dear – Chitauri wasn't it?'

I was left duly stunned (one, by the reference to such a traumatic event that I'd thought I'd done a good job shielding her from and two, by the non-belief in Emma's, er, intelligence) and so I'm reluctant to believe that she has allowed a hobo into our flat and is now talking to him as if he is her long-dead brother.

My own supper I take into my room.

I ignore the pale green walls (green is a soothing colour, and thus it permeates my entire room – even the curtains are a soft lime print) and set my bowl down on the bedside table.

Then I give a sigh and strain my ears for Aunt Becky's voice – there it is; a pleasant mid-pitch with a beautiful little tinkle – and hear the slow accompanying male voice which means that Bucky is talking to her.

I frown and take my coat off, hanging it up behind the door and then kneel beside my bed. It's a little dusty under here but there it is – wedged between a spare blanket and a hockey stick. The photo album is a deep purple and I open it and am confronted with Uncle Scott's face, old and lined with crinkles

His date of birth and date of death still leave me with a curious ache, but if the years don't eradicate the pain, they do dull it. I turn the pages from the Proctor family tree to the Barnes' one.

And … there he is. Looking as dashing as I thought him when I was nine and saw his picture for the first time.

James Buchanan Barnes.

I always thought that Philip resembled him – he has the same wide mouth and eyes that can harden and soften with his mood. The eyes …

There is a picture of him that was taken not three weeks before his death, and I know that if I turn the photograph over there would be a scribbled note: "_Becky, picture as requested. Thanks for the soap but it smells of flowers. You're injuring my rep. with the ladies. All's well here. Hope the punk's treating you well. Yours, Bucky."_

A cheerful little note but his eyes tell a different story – a harder one.

And then I _know_.

His hair may be longer. He may have the beginnings of a beard. But … it's him.

Not him in his photo – first taken when he joined the army. Not even him when he was in the 107th. He's changed.

But it's him.

Three facts that I know about Bucky Barnes:

1. He wrote frequent letters to my Aunt

2. He was a lifelong friend of Steve Rogers, right up till his own death

and

3. He apparently has more in common with Captain America than friendship as he is very much alive and looks remarkably well aged for a war veteran. And, oh! He's in my living room.

I … have no words and stare blankly at my green _soothing _wall. Soothing. Yeah. _Right_.

So …

Wow.

Uh …

I look at the bed. The sheets had better be changed. The room is rapidly cleaned and I manage to grab a spoonful or two of my stew in between hurriedly cramming everything into the wardrobe, ramming my romance novels as far as I can underneath the bed and stashing my bran-new walkie-talkie thing (Philip gave it to me – as well as its very long-winded name) after them.

I walk back into the hall and hear the trail end of Aunt Becky's words: "… we'll help you Bucky. You can stay here and we will." Her voice is a little weak and a little helpless. I straighten my spine and prepare to do war with Bucky. Doesn't matter that he's come back from the grave (so to speak). If Aunt Becky wants to help him then she jolly well will, even if I have to sit on the man. But I enter the living room and see Aunt Becky with her hand in Bucky's and they _both _look so, so darn sad that I nearly walk out again.

"Let me help you Bucky, just for a little while. Ida and I- well, you needn't be alone. Stay with us. We won't judge Bucky. Whatever has happened ... _please_ …"

Bucky is looking at her, and the irreverent part of my mind declares that all four thousand and eighty-six of his new-born puppies have been kicked at the same time thus resulting in the look upon his face.

He clears his throat and his voice comes out a little hoarse: "Even with this?" And- what, _what_ is he doing? He's standing and taking his jacket off. And then his long-sleeved shirt.

My mouth by this time, I'm sure, has dropped to the floor. Scratch that – it's dropped clear through to the earth's core.

And then he is standing there, looking down at Aunt Becky and _he's got a metal arm_.

My mind (ever the comedienne) decides to be a kindergartener and says, in shocked tones: Well … poop, I wasn't expecting _that_.

Aunt Becky isn't shocked – in fact, she is looking up at him with eyes which are tear-filled and full of sympathy.

"Even with that, Bucky."

He watches her impassively: "I've killed people."

"Of course you did, dear. You were part of the 107th."

He opens his mouth as if to correct her, but changes his mind.

Aunt Becky gestures to the couch. "Bucky … you are my _brother_. Whatever has happened, has happened. Now sit down and put your shirt on. And eat your stew. Ida's put too much salt in it again, but then … it's much better than the last meal."

He stands still for just a moment – a heartbeat. And then he says: "Okay."

I can read voices – I have them in my ear all day ranting, weeping and yelling at me. This one … holds confusion and, and vulnerability.

But then he looks up at me and the nothingness drops back over his face like the curtains at the end of a Broadway show.

My kindergartener scuttles away with a snigger and I grab my metaphorical jaw and close my mouth. "It _hasn't _got too much salt in it." I say, instead of the obvious jumble of words (the basic meaning of which translates to a huge: Wha-?!) "It's got too much chili."

Because _really_, these things _totally_ happen _every_ day. Why - long-dead Uncles _frequently_ appear looking remarkably well aged for dead men and _all_ have, have ... metal arms.

An everyday event.

Nothing unusual about it _at all._

It's not suprising, shocking or stunning.

You will forgive me for commenting on the salt.

* * *

**A/N: **Once more ... a big thank you to everyone who favourited, reviewed and followed.


	4. Chapter Three - Grey Paint

**Grey Paint**

"_Now why would you go and do a thing like that?" _

– a question I ask of Life every so often.

He's been with us for two days.

I took the first day off and stayed at the flat – spending the day painting the radiators and scrubbing the bath. Aunt Becky spent her morning sitting next to Bucky, reading through his letters (" … ah, this postcard you sent to me from Coney Island. You had a grand time with Steve then. I envied you as I had a great deal of cramming for an exam to do …").

We didn't see anything else of his metal arm – only his metal fingers. Aunt Becky refused to tell me what his entire arm looked like close up.

And then he upped and left.

Aunt Becky told me to put together a hearty supper and to make her a cup of coffee whilst I was at it (she also gave me a gentle reminder that salt went with supper and not supper with the salt – there was a difference, apparently).

He came back in the evening and sat down at our little kitchen table. Aunt Becky proceeded to say grace and then we ate.

In some ways he _almost_ reminds me of Philip when he was at his growing stage – all gangly limbs, very uncertain of himself.

In other ways he frightens me a little – he can sit as still as a statue for _hours_. And his eyes can grow so very blank and bleak.

This morning I decided that I needed to go back to work purely because money doesn't grow on trees and Bucky doesn't seem to possess homicidal tendencies (and also Aunt Becky has hinted that I mustn't neglect my work).

And so – here I am, in my pink bunny slippers and faded blue robe, standing at the stove and stirring the porridge.

A shuffle behind me and Aunt Becky appears, yawning and blinking up at me with a cheerful smile. "Morning, Auntie! Sleep well?"

"Yes, thank you. Coffee and biscuits please." She disappears out of the kitchen like a spectre clad in bright yellow. I've argued over and over for years now that cooking and drink-making is my duty and it's time that Aunt Becky put her feet up.

Only recently has she began to listen.

The porridge bubbles and spits and I am ready to sink to the floor and question my life decisions. Anything that forces you to wake up to a sharp, ringing alarm at an unholy hour in the morning should be rethought.

"Coffee?"

I start. And turn around and there is Bucky standing there, silent and still, in the same clothes he wore yesterday … and the day before (note to self: must buy him some more).

"Yeah sure. In the shelf over there. Kettle's on. Want a biscuit with it? Oh-" I say conversationally, "would you mind making a noise before 'appearing' like that, it doesn't have to be a big one – just you know, clear your throat or, or cough or sneeze." I demonstrate each option as he crosses the kitchen and opens the coffee cupboard.

"I'll try."

"Awesome." I give him a thumbs up. "And um, how do I put this? Do you have any other clothes? Because, if you want, I'll get you some … _or _you can meet me at the bus stop and we'll have a quick look at one of the stores which close a little later on."

"I'm fine."

"Yeah. I'm sure you are. But if you change your mind – bus stop. Aunt Becky will tell you where. And, um, I'll buy. Because we've missed so many of your birthdays. Obviously. And everyone needs presents. Especially belated ones."

He pours his drink and gives me a delayed nod. I smile at him.

I'm a great believer in smiles, except when I'm not. But if you smile at a person they will either a) return your beaming smile, b) give a bewildered little smile or c) frown.

He frowns.

I let my smile die a natural death and fight back the questions which keep besetting me. Questions like: _Where have you been? Why do you have a metal arm? Do you have nightmares – there was so much tossing and turning and moaning last night that I nearly came in to wake you, but then I didn't because of the many Unknowns. What did you mean 'you've killed people' (because I think you meant other than the ones you killed in the war)? And why do you seem to be so, so grief stricken at one moment and really, really lethal in the next?_

Call me paranoid but I haven't looked him up on the leaked S.H.I.E.L.D database.

Two Reasons Why I've Not Looked Bucky Up on the S.H.I.E.L.D database:

1. I'm afraid of what I'll find

2. What if someone is monitoring all the searches? What if they are after him? There are too many what ifs.

Instead, I watch him. Yeah, I could be classed under 'Stalker' (or 'Sort-Of Stalker') but I call it more 'Protecting my Aunt and Feeling a Little Concerned over my Long-Dead-_Not_-Dead Uncle'. Perfectly reasonable and logical. (Oh, all right. I'm an honest person - Aunt Becky is probably annoyed with my in-_no_-way obvious hovering and thus has _heavily _hinted that it would be a good thing if I returned to work).

"Do you want some porridge?" I ask my silent companion.

He looks up from staring at the kitchen floor and glances at the porridge.

"It's very good for you – gives a great start to the morning."

He blinks.

"… or not." I continue valiantly, "You don't have to have some, but it's important to eat in the morning. Science shows that it's the most important meal of the day. You didn't have any yesterday but-"

"Okay," he says, and now it's me that blinks awkwardly. What? He's going to have some. Really? Behold the powers of Ida's Persuasion!

"Right. It'll be done a moment or two. I have to keep stirring it or it goes horribly lumpy. And then it's disgusting and gag-worthy. Do you want salt on it or honey? I tend to have honey. Scotsmen have salt. And I'm not a Scott. Er. Clearly. Though my birthparents had a bit of Irish in them. I think." I'm talking to fill the silence – sometimes empty chatter is comforting.

A bit like a sheet of paper covering the cracks. For a little while it covers it, but then you need something better to do the job. But for the moment, paper-talk will do. Besides – it's all I've got.

"So … what do you say? Do you want to try both?"

He sips his coffee and his greasy brown hair falls over his face. He needs a shower. Or not. Can you shower with a metal arm? I give a hasty glance at his metal fingers which hold the handle of the cup. What must it be like-? I don't know. Something in Bucky's face discourages that sort of questioning.

"Salt," he says at last. "I'll have salt."

"Really? Okay then. Your taste buds must be different to mine. Not that that's a bad thing. I put too much salt on everything though; I can't seem to taste it. Which is the reason why I have honey. Weird, huh?" The porridge is bubbling happily away. It's almost like a swamp chewing bubble gum. Pop! Bub blub blub. Pop!

That's a very weird analogy._ Ida_ – I tell myself silently - _your mind is weird_.

I glance at Bucky who is staring into nothing. He looks almost … devoid of hope? So I talk: "Even if you don't go shopping, I can get a razor for you. If you want."

"I'll be fine."

Yeah, of course you will. In all your bearded glory. Though, of course, there is nothing wrong with having a beard. _I'd _have a beard if I was a man.

I blink. See – this is the reason why I should have stayed in bed; a perfectly rational creature can descend into a colossal pit of daftness for want of just _one _hour more of sleep.

"Right, grub's up!" I take three bowls and serve the swa- _porridge_ into the bowls. Then I put salt on Bucky's, a generous dollop of honey on mine and a little milk on Aunt Becky's.

And with a little tray assembled for Aunt Becky (coffee, biscuits and porridge) I take it in to the living room where she sits watching T.V.

"Dreadful," she comments. "That little girl who got kidnapped the other day _still _hasn't been found."

"The poor kid," I remark, giving her a kiss on her white hair and placing the tray on her lap.

"No salt?" she inquires with her eyes twinkling.

I roll my eyes and don't deign to reply.

Bucky is sitting at the kitchen table when I return. And his face is … well, it isn't anguished. It isn't full of grief. Rather it … oh.

I put too much salt in it.

Again.

"How about some cereal instead?" I say cheerfully.

He agrees and I ought to be offended, but I'm not. I give him a conspiratorial grin. "I put too much salt in it, didn't I? It's the bane of my cooking."

I fix him some cereal and then look at the clock. Oh dear, I'd better dash.

And so I do.

Sometimes I can really impress myself with just how fast I can dress.

Work is busy – but then it always is – and I snatch a bar from the vending machine and drink a coffee at lunch time. The coffee resembles mud and the bar leaves chocolate stains on my fingers.

I sit in a little cubical in an office without any windows and with plenty of artificial light. The phones are always ringing and there is a constant buzz of speech. The lights are bright and white – no soft yellow for us. Soft light is for _wimps_, anyway (or so I assume our managers think).

Amy, my manager, has so many meetings today that I joke with Kevin (tall, Korean heritage, a Brooklyn accent and dressed with a polka dot tie which is always askew and purple sneakers instead of smart shoes. He gets away with it because of his dimples) by the water cooler that in our company, they have meetings _about _their meetings (and meetings about the meetings which were about the original meetings), then we scurry back to our phones and the often shrill voices of disappointed customers fill our ears.

It's more interesting than Sales, though.

Today passes quickly and is especially busy. I only have one pleasant phone conversation – a customer is so overwhelmed and happy with her purchase that she cries. I cannot decipher what she bought but through her weeping she tells me her life story. Young, newly single with a puppy that has just recovered from worms. Oh, and her mother is in the military.

And she's lactose intolerant.

And she hates carrots.

People are unique and amaze me. And apparently consider me their therapist. And dietician.

I leave work and embrace my freedom and _natural _light with enthusiasm. On the bus I can't be bothered to read – instead I ponder how quickly everything can change, and how humans can adapt to it – case in point: the Avengers, the Battle of New York and three 'helicarriers' playing 'Let's Explode'.

The bus slows to a halt and a hiss.

It's funny – I don't expect it but there he has, standing with baseball cap jammed on his head and hands (both metal and flesh) jammed into his pockets.

He gives me a nod and I have to compute the fact that he is there and I haven't a clue as to how to shop for a man.

I smile at him. "Hello! Did you have a good day?"

"Yeah."

I shift my purse on my shoulder and remind him gently: "You know, this is the part where you continue with: 'and you?'"

A short "and you?" is uttered.

"Oh very well, thank you." I respond politely. "Two blocks away and there's the clothing store – it's a small one which always has a sale. We can get nicer things for you later on, but this trip we'll just get the bare necessities. Ha. Like Baloo the Bear in the Jungle Book. Have you-? No? You don't know what it is?" I hum a few notes but his face remains as blank as ever.

Right.

Okay then.

But then, I am humming a Disney song to a war-veteran who was thought to be dead but isn't and also possess a metal … arm. Somehow my little tune seems trivial. But then my usual stubbornness kicks in and I refuse to consider 'The Bare Necessities' as trivial.

We walk in silence and it isn't awkward. This bit of the neighbourhood is a little … well, it's rough. Always has been. It's rather comforting to have Bucky by my side.

At the shop we entire and the bell tinkles out a welcome to us and a warning to the sales assistant who is sitting on a stool at the far back, engrossed in a magazine. She doesn't look up.

Of the t-shirts I grab several black ones and then a blue one. The wall behind the clothing rack is coated in a peeling grey paint and the whole shop seems a little grim.

In the centre is a basket full of men's underwear – priced at exactly one dollar and seven cents. I hope they are of a reasonable quality though anything that cheap is _potentially_ a little suspect. I don't exactly enjoy handling men's underwear, but one must be practical and so I summon Bucky from looking a little blankly at pants.

"Do you need to stock up on these?" I gesture to the underwear and pretend that I'm actually pointing to hats. Lots and lots of hats.

He walks over to me – silent steps which both spook me and intrigue me – and stares at the underwear like it's an alien and he's from a primitive tribe.

Er …

I turn to walk away but can't help give a suspicious glance at the underwear and then back at him. Why is he so-? Oh. He's not looking at the underwear. He's looking at the price - at the big, black writing on a crusty bit of old cardboard.

$1.07

I open my mouth to assure him that '_don't worry – missed birthdays remember?_' or '_it's cheap but they don't look like they will fall apart_' but he just … leaves. Walks out of the door with quick strides which a romance novel would compare to a panther ('on a deadly prowl' … sigh! Faint! Swoon! My word, I've really rotted my brain) and I, personally (based firmly in the real world) would compare to the walk of a man who really doesn't like underwear or price tags.

I glance back at the price tag, I'd better-

$1.07

_Oh!_

Bucky was in the 107th.

I dump the t-shirts on the basket, swivel my head to look at the sales assistant and send a quick, apologetic look which she doesn't catch but makes me feel better. Conscience appeased, I head out after him.

Cars are whizzing past; rushing to get home, I suspect. There are a few pedestrians on the sidewalk and ah! There he is with his baseball hat further down and so I increase my strides until I'm practically running.

Perhaps it set off a flashback – the price, I mean. We haven't a clue what he's been through and maybe the '$1.07' has really affected him. I really ought to look Bucky up. No, no I shouldn't. He'll tell us when he's ready. Or maybe not. He's affected by the price of underwear for goodness' sake (and that isn't funny. In the least. Darn you, Ida. Show a little compassion. Ha! You can't laugh when you're out of breath now can you? Serves you right).

Oh great. I've lost him. No, I haven't – did he turn a corner?

I tighten my grip on my purse as I follow him. This is a rough neighbourhood with hardly anyone in sight. Should I turn around? Where has he gone?

Oh, is that him? Why has he turned into an alleyway further on?

I enter in after him. It's rather dark and gloomy. Only a single beam of dying sunlight shines through the grey into the alleyway, peeking in a hazardous way between two, tall buildings. Litter is everywhere and, and I swallow and say, "Bucky?"

There is a silence.

But then, I hear a rustle behind me and I turn.

It's so sudden. So fast. So swift.

My purse is snatched and my hands automatically clutch at it. I'm not prepared for the sharp bite of a blade on my upper arm. Not prepared for the fist which hits me in the stomach. Not prepared for the hissed comparison to a female dog.

I'm folded at the waist and my purse is gone for my hands have gone to my stomach. I'm wheezing for breath and am unready for the blow to my cheek that sends me sprawling back against the rough brick wall. I hit my head and land on something squishy and slick.

My head is upturned and I see the figure above me - can make out the grey outlines of his face and I'm so, so grateful that it isn't Bucky.

A foot hits me on the chest and all I can think through a bizarre mixture of relief, pain and panic is: _this isn't over, but it isn't Bucky and oh God help me. _

And then there are groping hands and now I'm fighting, scrambling for my life. My hand reaches beneath me and I grab what I landed on and swing whatever it is at my attacker.

It is a dead cat.

I think that it stuns my attacker but it doesn't me. I kick my foot out and it collides with something - his leg? - and I hear the 'whoosh' of air which means I've hit something painful.

But the kick launched me backwards against the wall and I clonk my head again_. _Stunned, the world and its grey colours and red bricks and litter whirl around and around and suddenly I can see the blood on my arm – a dark red in the dim light.

The last time I saw blood like this was when I was trapped on the streets of New York two years ago and the woman in front of me was impaled by falling glass. I can remember that split second when the sunlight hit the pane and turned it golden.

But then it hit the woman (she was huddling in the street, on her knees with her hands protecting her head), and it turned red.

Well, there red was everywhere then. More than the amount dribbling down my arm right now, but it brings to mind that other terrible, terrible red.

They gave Free Therapy to all citizens of New York, and _my_ therapist thought I was in shock. I disagreed. I wasn't in shock – I'd just buried all the events of that day: the screams, the monsters that came from the sky and the frantic struggle to get back to Aunt Becky and the horrible question of '_was she alright?'_

But now I see the blood and it all comes back.

I look upwards and see my attacker lean down, his fist pulled back. I can't help it. Before, all I could do was let out grunts and take sharp intakes of breath but now, now I scream because I'm frightened and bravery is as elusive as a slippery eel.

But suddenly, suddenly he's gone. Whisked away. Pulled backwards.

And someone else is leaning over him, just in front of me. Another fist is raised and the thud of a metal fist hitting flesh and bone is the strangest sound I've ever heard.

This isn't a movie with buckets of fake blood and special effects. There isn't any music – heart pounding music that makes the action seem so _cool. _The only background track is the traffic not far from here – the honk of the horn and the occasional squeal of the tire.

My thoughts are a haze and I'm gasping for air and grasping at anything, anything at all that resembles sanity and reason and _normalcy_.

The sight in front of me is vicious and I can't _think_ because that man _hurt _me and yet- the fist is a blur and it's rising and falling and the figure gripped in Bucky's right hand is limp and lifeless- oh no.

A quick, disjointed chant echoes around my head and I cannot decipher it save only for a few repeated words: _Aunt Becky mustn't know … Aunt Becky will be so sad … Bucky mustn't … else Aunt Becky … he can't …_

My voice is hoarse and, and maybe it trembles, maybe it doesn't but it's there and it's screaming out in panic: "_Bucky! Stop!"_

And suddenly the fist stops punching and Bucky is looking at me, and I at him and it's silent but the hum of the traffic is still there. Shadows are etched upon his face and I can't see his eyes – can't see their expression. But I can feel his gaze.

Isn't it odd that I don't _think_ at all? All I do is note the incredible sticking powers of Bucky's baseball hat, still siting firmly on his head.

And then my attacker is dropped to the floor like a rag doll. And Bucky's gone.

I pull myself up to my knees. My cheeks are damp and bruised. I don't know what to do. Oh – look, there's my purse next to the dead cat.

I crawl over to it and fumble through my possessions. I'd better call 911. Yes – that's the right thing to do. A scratched and grimy hand reaches up and wipes my cheek.

Okay.

Take a deep breath.

Worse things have happened.

Don't be stupid and start crying.

It could have been worse.

I'd better make _two _calls - one to nine-one-one and the other to Aunt Becky.

"Aunt Becky?" I say to her after I've made the other call and my poor heart has stopped thinking I was running a marathon. "There's been an accident- no, it's okay" [it's _not _okay] "everything is fine" [apart from my attacker, who I crouch over shuddering at what could have happened and feeling sick over what has] "I'm just ringing to ask you to turn the supper down, I'm going to be a little late. No, no – I'm not _crying_. I've just been … cutting onions."

I close my eyes and breathe a prayer and then I sit down, beside a broken glass bottle, an overturned garbage bin and a dead cat. Beside the man who attacked me. I can't tell his age. His face is too bloodied.

I don't cry. I'm sensible, you see. So very sensible.

A sensible woman with dampened cheeks.

And my therapist's diagnosis is finally right after two years: I _am_ in shock.

The blood is soaking my top and I wonder – as I did on that day when the heavens opened out of the blue and death came through – wonder how reality can include _this_.

How?

It doesn't seem real.

My head hurts.

It's very real.

I close my eyes and hear the approaching sirens.

* * *

**A/N: **Well, it was bound to happen sooner or later. The Winter Soldier hasn't exactly been cutting carnations for the past fifty years or so and this story isn't _really _going to be a rom-com or comedy capers.

I've posted this early because ... Happy Easter!

Once again - thank you for all the kind reviews, favourites and follows.


	5. Chapter Four - Yellow Paint

**Yellow Paint**

_"We seek him here, we seek him there  
Those Frenchies seek him everywhere!  
Is he in heaven? Or is he in hell?  
That demmed Elusive Pimpernel?" _

– _Baroness Orczy_

The engine splutters and in the mirror I can see a grey puff of smoke billow behind me. I grit my teeth and hope that I don't break down.

But then, if I do – I do.

I've got bigger things on my mind right now.

The bigger things that are on my mind:

_Where is Bucky?_

_and (most importantly)_

_I left my coat on the bus_

Funny, isn't it? My thoughts could sweep through panicked memories or play those awful minutes on a loop. And they try to – when looking for Bucky becomes monotonous and every slouching figure is someone other than him, then the memories come like a flood and my mind latches onto one little fact - I left my coat on the bus and therefore it didn't get sliced by the knife.

A car blares its horn behind me. I switch gears and step on the gas.

I was going too slowly.

His name was Shaun, the police told me.

The exchange of names was not mutual. Or perhaps it was, but on my side I stretched and marred the truth until it was like play dough that once was a bright blue piglet and now is a blue pancake. The truth is blue but the shape it takes is different; some of the facts stay the same, others depart. Change shape.

I can't tell the truth. I know I should, I know I ought to. But I simply _can't_.

It isn't the fact Bucky is my Uncle. It isn't the fact that Aunt Becky would be upset if the truth came out into public view. It isn't even the fact that he is a war veteran, a hero from the past who fought for our freedom.

He is dangerous. There is no doubt about it. The fact was shown to me - punctuated by every punch and sound of metal against flesh. He could cause harm to Aunt Becky, yes.

These are reasons – reasons that should have made me open my mouth and spill the beans. Good reasons. _Sensible _reasons.

But I didn't tell the cop – even when he looked at me with brown eyes that held a hint of compassion at the stumbling rantings of a bruised and shaken woman with pen poised and questions ready.

Why?

Because, because that morning – yesterday morning – I saw hopelessness in Bucky. When he arrived I saw emptiness. When he spoke, I heard vulnerability.

Call me a fool – an idiot even. Any sane U.S citizen would march up to the cops and inform them of the dangerousness of their house-guest. At the way he beat my attacker up. At the lethal silence in which he can sit and his (potentially) deadly past.

But the thing is … is that, well, _he didn't beat me_. It wasn't me that he hit. He hit my attacker. _My _attacker.

Yes, he may have overdone it – perhaps he saw demons and mistook Shaun's face for theirs.

But it wasn't me he was hitting and he stopped when I called.

He stopped and, and somehow … somehow I can't do it. Can't say a single word to implicate him. Even though the sounds of those moments echo in my ears and play before my eyes whenever I close them.

Good thing I'm driving my old van then, isn't it?

Aunt Becky is either wholly lacking in sympathy or is remarkably wise for she hasn't let me stay still. Today I was supposed to rest and dose myself with painkillers. I'm dosed with painkillers but in no way am I resting.

I've been sent to look for Bucky. I nearly said something to Aunt Becky about a needle in a haystack but held my tongue from spitting out my protests.

I glance at the map sitting on the seat next to me. I really oughtn't to be driving. But when Aunt Becky fixes her gaze on you, you don't have any option but to do _exactly _what she says.

Besides, it's a life lesson for me - something about using a rickety gear stick, yelping in pain and making sure I don't run anyone over.

I'm just cruising the streets – and … if I wasn't so, so _this _then I would feel like a creep. A stalker who drives here, there and everywhere with nothing but a vague idea of places where a certain missing Uncle might be.

So far the missing man has stayed precisely that – missing.

I've tried to get myself in his mind-set – to think like he would in order to find out where he would go. They do that, don't they? In cop TV shows and in real life - to search for people.

So far all attempts – naturally - have ended in abysmal failure.

I must be a terrible person but some small part of me is so, so grateful to him. Because Shaun has been in jail before. For, for … I can't say the word. Can't even _think _it.

I want to close my eyes but I can't because I'm driving and so I keep them open and refuse to consider the 'what ifs' and 'could haves' which feel like the edge of a cliff and to indulge in them is to jump into a bottomless pit of fear.

But I'm _grateful _to Bucky – rather a bloodied Shaun then a hollow me, is the thought that plays at the edge of my mind. But when I think this I think of Shaun's face and I feel so _terrible _that I should be _glad _that he was like that.

But, if Bucky hadn't …

These thoughts are troubling so, as I strain my eyes and watch for Bucky, I think about my coat and how to retrieve it and wonder if I had anything valuable in the pockets. No, I didn't. Nothing but a packet of mints and used tissue.

The Battle of New York did a number on the city – two years later and while much of the damaged areas are rebuilt, there are parts where the buildings sit there with gashes and scars. These are mostly in the already run-down neighbourhoods.

These are the places I drive past and through. Looking for an elusive figure.

But no – he isn't there, of _course _he isn't.

I'm an idiot and my arm hurts and my chest aches and I need to put more gas in the van. I wind down my window, because the air-con is broken (of _course _it is). I see shadowed figures flit behind a hardware store that looks as though it needs to use some of its own products and hear a cry for help.

The cry is cut off.

I slow the van down for a few moments, and strain my ears. I bite my lip. Call 911. Report what I heard.

And then, I drive away.

I'm already battered and bruised and I don't have a metal arm. But I still feel the guilt. And my chest hurts and I know that it has nothing to do with yesterday.

I go home and call the bus company about my coat. Aunt Becky tucks me in bed like I'm a little girl again and brings me a cup of tea.

She strokes my head as I fall to sleep.

_Day Two_

I'm up and driving before eight o'clock. Lying in bed reminded me of lying in the alley and I kept tensing, expecting a blow.

I can't even bear to sit at my computer and search for Bucky's past. Illogical and stupid of me, I know. But I can't help it.

I've phoned work and they understand – Amy is all consideration and I now know what it is like to be on the receiving end of our customer service.

We're good.

I'm beginning to get to know New York a lot better. It's really big. Ha. I've lived here for so long that I forget that my own little piece of neighbourhood is one of thousands. It's so easy to narrow down the world to make it better for us to live in and understand.

Right now, I feel like a single syllable in a dictionary – small and insignificant. Looking for a needle in a busy haystack of homes and shops and skyscrapers and yellow cabs. I'm trying to hide, I guess. Delude myself into thinking that if the wheels of my van keep turning and I keep moving than thoughts and memories can't catch up with me.

I'm a fool.

I drive past that neighbourhood again – the one from yesterday. There are a couple of kids hanging around. Teens looking more world weary than they should.

The windows are wound down and I catch the sounds of an argument – same hardware store. Same flitting shadows. Those sitting on the sidewalk - leaning against a rundown fence with cigarettes and beer cans casually held between their fingers - don't pay any attention.

I drive home.

This is stupid – I'm an adult. A fully grown woman. A sensible woman.

I take the next dose of painkillers when I get home and force myself to sit down and read a novel. Somehow the words on the page stay exactly that – there is no magic there, no whisking me away to another time and another place.

I'm stuck on a couch that smells of peppermint and musk with a book in my hands and an aching chest and an arm that has too many stiches in it.

_Where are you Bucky?_

Philip rings and I tell him about my rescuers – three of them (one young, one middle aged and one almost in his dotage) all with knuckle dusters - who ran to my rescue when I screamed and beat the living daylights out of the man who attacked me.

It sounds stupid, but I stick to it. The mental image is morbidly comical.

He listens for a while, says all the right things and then begins to chatter about his work. I listen as I stand in the hallway and pick at the faded yellow wallpaper with a fingernail.

I nearly thank him for being so normal, but instead simply tell him that I love him and that if he talks back to his boss like that again, he probably _will _be fired.

He laughs and I hang up.

_Day Three_

Today I wake up and feel as if everything is okay. Back to normal. But then I catch a glimpse of my bruises in the mirror and becoming a weeping mess. Aunt Becky shuffles into the small bathroom and rubs my back.

I tell her it's PMS.

"Of course it is." Her eyes see too much.

"I'm a coward."

"No dear … every woman goes through the same thing."

I gape at her and a reluctant grin works its way onto my face. "I'd better look for Bucky today. I bet I find him too – third time lucky, you know."

She smiles and I realize that we are paper-talking. It's very effective.

"What's for breakfast, Auntie?"

"Don't think you're getting out of that one, dear. And shouldn't we have a look at your arm? Change the bandages?"

Aunt Becky may _look_ old – wrinkles may chase each other across her face. She may seem as frail as a china doll, but … she's there when I need her. Like now. I give her a one armed hug and a smacking kiss on her white curls.

She understands.

Before we eat breakfast she says grace, and adds at the end: "And give Ida courage and strength. Help her beat back these fears and memories like Muhammad Ali beat his opponents. Amen."

I smile and pretend my eyes aren't watering. Only Aunt Becky …

Even though it's raining today and the windshield wipers are slow and make an appalling noise, I feel almost … cheerful.

Evening comes far quicker then I think possible and I drive by that neighbourhood again. There is a sharp crack and I think it's my van playing up again.

Only when I park the van two blocks away from home – the only parking space I can have – do I realize that it wasn't the van. It _could _have been a gunshot. The thought makes me pause in locking the van. But then I push the key firmly in my pocket and force myself to think of other things.

The stairs are horrible to climb and I pause at every third step.

I really wish they'd fix the elevator.

I arrive home and open the door. _Yes,_ I haven't found Bucky but the last three days have served a purpose – brought it home with every awkward and painful shift of the gear stick.

The purpose of searching for a missing Uncle when the odds of finding him are lower than the Dead Sea:

_Therapy_

Aunt Becky is wise and I troop through the hallway, burst open the living room door and open my mouth to announce my belief in her wisdom and the probability that I'm going to need to keep driving for another couple of days. Or weeks. Or years.

But I don't say anything.

Only feel a very real sense of déjà vu.

"Hello, Bucky." I say. "Where on earth have you been? I've been looking for-" I don't complete the sentence because Bucky isn't vulnerable, hopeless or empty.

He looks like he's in hell.

I don't think- I don't think-

Yes, I don't think that paper-talk is going to fix this.

* * *

**A/N: **I do apologise for the absence of Bucky from most of this chapter. But trust me in that this serves a purpose. Honestly. Things are going to liven up around here in the next few chapters. Thank you very much for all the (lovely) reviews, favourites and follows. To the anon reviewer who corrected me on the name of Baloo the Bear – thanks :)


	6. Chapter Five - Green Paint 2 point 0

**Green Paint 2.0**

" … _as delicate as a butterfly's wing …"_

My first thoughts are selfish, and I feel so very guilty for thinking them.

Good people, you see, good people would immediately cross the room, put their arms around the broken hearted individual and offer them unlimited comfort and unconditional love.

Good people _don't _– and I repeat this to you, future Ida. Make a note of this. Stick it in your non-existent diary and hammer it into your unloving skull – Good people do _not _think: _'I can't handle this anymore'_ when they see someone who looks like Bucky does right now.

Good people don't feel like giving up.

Good people are perfect.

And you, _you _are not.

He is haunted. Look the word up, kid. Look it up and the definition is Bucky. His eyes are red and swollen. I'm staring at him, as is Aunt Becky who sits as still as a statue on her black seat. He's looking at my painting of Angel Falls which hangs over our gas fireplace.

None of us speak. I slump onto the couch (and also uncomfortably onto _another _one of those home owner magazines). The magazine slips to the floor, with its centre spread of a woman with a perfect smile with perfect white teeth sitting on a perfect cream chair. And her hair is brown and all … bouncy.

I blink and discover in myself a certain resentment towards that glossy woman who looks so perfect. She doesn't belong here.

And then he speaks with a voice that is rough and broken. Not like glass – but more like a cracked clay pot; its ragged edges rubbing together.

"I remember."

That's all he says. He doesn't need to say much more. His voice says it all, carries a weight about it.

What are you supposed to say to that? It is too much – questions, thoughts, and feelings all bubbling together in a cauldron that spits and burns and to _say _something is to tip it over and let the scolding liquid burn us all.

"I remember," he says and he turns so that he is facing us both, looming over us yet not really seeing us at all. "I remember what they did to me."

"Do you know," he questions and his eyes – dark eyes. Blue eyes. Terrible empty eyes – scour my mine, "what they did to me?"

I shake my head slowly and my chest feels very, very bruised.

"They made me," he closes his eyes and when he opens them again I see the moisture there. "They made me a … a monster."

He sinks to the floor, onto his knees and buries his head in his hands. He stays still for a heartbeat.

What happens next I prefer not to remember. I've buried it deep – deeper than I buried the memories of the Battle of New York. I've pushed back the sound of fragmented – Russian, is it? Or German? Or both – into a damp, cold cell. I've stuffed the sight of a broken man behind it. It is strangely … oh, to say sacred is laughable, but rarely do you see a man so tortured, so torn, so _damaged _as the one I saw then. I've locked it all away and thrown away the key.

Only, I think the door will burst open again. It feels strangely weak. I can't stand this. My chest hurts, my arm throbs and I wish, I wish … I don't know what I wish.

I don't know how long we've been sitting here – hours it feels like. Hours upon hours that have piled up and are a heavy weight upon us all. He stopped weeping a long time ago. The wall bears the mark of his fist – he didn't hit it with metal, but with flesh and bone which now are bruised and crisscrossed with spilt and bleeding scratches.

He is propped up by the wall with one knee supporting an arm and the other leg stretched out before him, touching the magazine that's still open with the glossy picture of that perfect woman with her perfect white teeth.

He looks utterly spent.

A hollowed husk. He is staring and I wonder what he sees – not me, sitting on the battered couch with tangled short hair and whose face is frozen and damp. Not Aunt Becky who has sunk against her seat looking completely shattered.

It's the lull after the storm.

Or … perhaps the peace in the middle.

His head leans against the wall and I wonder absently if the grease in his hair will make a mark on the cream paint. Like the crack. But different.

I stand on numbed legs and stagger into the kitchen. Swallow some painkillers. Boil some water. Coffee and tea for everyone. And biscuits. You mustn't forget biscuits. Biscuits make the world go round – are shaped like it too. In a 2D kind of way.

A blanket. Yes. I need a blanket.

I leave the kitchen and go to the hall closet – our linen slash cleaning closet. I tuck a soft blue blanket under my arm and go into the kitchen. Aren't people in shock given blankets?

(Huh. _I _wasn't given a blanket. Was I? I can't recall.)

One step at a time. They climbed Everest, K2 and all the other seemingly impossible mountains. One step at a time. (Lots of people died in the numerous attempts too. Pessimism, I salute you).

I assemble a tray and go back into the living room. Aunt Becky looks at me and she is tired and worn like an old piece of beautiful embroidery that's faded with time.

My chest hurts and my bruises are throbbing again – everywhere ... stomach, head … just everywhere.

I whisper to Aunt Becky to follow me and this time it is I who tucks her into bed and puts a warm drink and three biscuits on her bedside table.

"Look after him," she murmurs as I leave the room. "Be careful."

I return to the kitchen, retrieve the tray and blanket and approach Bucky carefully. My knees creak as I kneel beside him and place the tray down on the floor. I don't look at his metal hand but awkwardly drape the blanket over his shoulders and slide the tray with its coffee and pile of biscuits over to him. The coffee slops and splashes and soaks the biscuits with the jerking movement.

**Question:** What does one do next?

**Answer:** Not a clue- ah! But perhaps you have some options:

1. Retreat to your room and a romance novel. You've done all you can and my dear, dear self, you deserve a break. All things considered.

2. Hug him. He looks like he needs a hug.

3. Give him your childhood teddy bear, a romance novel and offer to drive him around in the van. For therapy.

"If you want to … talk," I say instead. "I'm here. Because sometimes it helps. Talking, I mean. If you talk it out then it might go away. Not completely, erm, not yours by the looks of it. Oh, sorry I didn't mean- What I _mean _is that sometimes, sometimes talking helps. And I'm here. To listen. Look, I'll sit over there and read about Dukes and fiery spitfires and er, you can talk to me when you're ready. Okay?"

He utters a low: "Yeah."

I let out a breath and give him a nod.

He looks so darn pale and _hurting _– like a living wound that's bleeding and open and raw. And I can't do anything but find a romance novel and sit on a couch with tea that has too much milk in it and a biscuit that I keep dropping, spreading crumbs everywhere.

I swallow and try to concentrate on the words. I can't read a single one.

It is so silent that I can hear my wristwatch ticking.

Bucky moves and I peek over the top of the book. He's drinking the coffee. Slurping it actually. He looks up and I try to pretend that I wasn't staring at him like a concerned mother hen.

Quack. (Oh wait, that's a duck.)

Did he just say something-?

"Upside down."

Yes, yes he did.

I lower the book. "Sorry, what did you say?"

"It's upside down." His hand makes a small gesture. "The book."

I glance down. Ah yes. The Duke of Pembroke is proving that the Alpha Male can even be suspended, upside down, and still,er, _hold _(maul would be a better word) the love of his life. "Oh, yes. So it is." I smile at him again. "Thanks."

I begin to read in earnest now. But like yesterday, the magic just isn't there. The Duke has slapped the poor-but-in-no-way-plain Jane. I glare at the pages. The Duke is simply an arrogant man who needs to be punched. Repeatedly.

Memories rise up again and I shiver. No. He doesn't need to be punched, I decide - knocked out and shipped to Timbuktu will do perfectly well. With a dead rat stuffed down his pants.

"I'm an assassin." The words interrupt my thoughts and I frown. Did he just offer to off the Duke? No, Ida, you silly creature. Bucky can't read thoughts and besi- did he just say he was an assassin?

I lower my book and look at him. I'm too worn out to be surprised.

He looks at me – the young Bucky from the album, the one that fought in the war and the one who I meet just this week all wrapped up into one man looking at me – the gaze of a tired, weary man. "They made me forget … over and over … so many times ... until I fought him – that was the spark, till the end of the line' he said. … he didn't fight back … the stupid punk didn't fight back …" He drains the coffee down with a single gulp.

"Have a biscuit," I suggest, to fill the awful silence.

Metal fingers close around the digestive biscuit and take it to his mouth. "Do you know," he asks me, with biscuit crumbs falling. "Do you know how many people I've killed?"

"No," I say simply.

"My name," he says after a while. "My name's James Buchanan Barnes."

It's like he's assuring himself of the fact. So I agree with him: "Yes. You are. Though we call you Bucky."

He blinks, nods and eats another biscuit.

"I could call you Uncle Bucky, if you want." I say stupidly because I can't bear the look in his eyes.

He blinks slowly.

"Or … just Bucky. Right. Okay then. Bucky it will be."

Another biscuit disappears.

Time ticks on.

"They put me in cryogenic stasis." He tells me with bleak eyes. "In between. They … froze me."

Ah.

Er.

"I fell down into the valley. Into the ice. They found me. They should have left me for dead."

He stands wearily. The crumbs fall to the floor along with the blue blanket.

"They should have left me for dead."

I rise, leave the mauling Duke to drop onto the floor beside the glossy woman. "You're going to stay – aren't you? I … it's not good for you to disappear like this. Not right now. Look – I'll bring you a warm milk if you go to bed. Right now. You can listen to some music – classical, old timey … whatever you like, to keep your thoughts occupied. But stay … because, because you aren't in … cryog- whatever it is stasis- er, frozen. And, and you won't be. Ever again."

"What if I want to be?" he asks. "You don't think when you're like that. Everything … stops. What if I want to be?"

How do you answer a question like that? _How_? My tongue runs amuck: "Than that would be … stupid. Foolish. Because it's alright to halt everything but in the end … you wake up and you have to face whatever it is that you're hiding from."

He gazes at me for a moment and then goes to my room and when I bring him a warm milk he is lying on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. I don't think the green paint is soothing him.

"I put a bit of cinnamon in it," I tell him. "No salt."

The glass hits the bedside table with a clink. I hesitate in leaving him. "You can call me … if you need anything. I'm just down the hall."

I think I imagine the whisper of a 'thanks' as I leave.

I change into my pyjamas ('gimme a hug' says the bear on the front of the top), make my bed on the couch and close my eyes. Shaun hovers above me and hits me over and over again. I don't fight back.

My eyes open. The grey light of dawn has worked its way past our flimsy curtains, but this isn't what awakens me. It was a bump from my room. Why is-? Confusion falls off me like a drape and I sit bolt upright.

Bucky.

My eyes fly to the crack on the wall – barely discernible in the shadows, but still there.

Is he leaving?

He shouldn't – not like he is right now. Or was, because this is today and that was yesterday. I leave the couch, nearly trip over that blasted book and open the living room door, yawning.

My light is switched on – yellow beams have crept underneath the door and flooded the hall carpet. I knock.

No response.

I can't be bothered to be sensible – I never am when recently summoned out of my sleep. I open the door.

My First Thoughts Upon Seeing What Bucky is Doing:

Huh? Is … he … Wha-?

"Bucky … what are you doing? And, erm, why have you moved the bed?" I sit on said bed, noting the rumpled covers.

He continues to draw. My green wall is covered in a black spider's web. Or at least, that's what I _assume _it is.

I blink and rub my eyes, noting the empty glass on the newly moved bedside table. I strain to see what he's doing. It isn't a spider's web, that's for sure. The last green space on my wall is now covered in black letters. He's writing.

He stands up and drops the pen on the floor – it's a permanent, black ink pen.

He takes a few steps backwards until he is against the bed's wooden headboard. "It's the names."

"Alright. You've written names on my wall." I nod in perfect understanding. Then I frown. "_Whose _names?"

He spares me a glance. His eyes are empty and blue. "The people I've killed - their names."

I look at the wall, blink and rub my eyes again. "That's, that's a _lot _of names."

He runs his fingers through his hair. Rubs his face. Stares at the black ink with the eyes of a hypnotized man. "Yeah."

Questions. There are always questions with Bucky. Here's one, for instance: _you mean these are the people you've killed since you were apparently dead?_ And another: _you're feeling the guilt, aren't you? I can see it in your eyes, hear it in your voice._

"These aren't all of them - only the ones I remember."

"Bucky … are you _sure_?"

"Yeah."

That's all he needs to say. And by golly, he'd better not say any more.

I stand and reach out, touch his bare arm hesitantly. "Bucky. I … you …"

He turns his eyes toward me and I straighten my spine. _One step at a time, Ida. It's the same for him too. _"I think I have an old t-shirt of Philip's hanging about somewhere. You can put it on … and …" he shifts and my eyes see, for the first time, the star – the red star – on his metal arm.

_Bucky … _

That's why he spoke Russian then.

"And we'll have breakfast and, no – you need to have a wash first. I'll get you a spare toothbrush – I really should have thought of that earlier. I'll do you breakfast and then-"

"No."

No, he says. No, _my foot_.

"Bucky." I gesture towards the wall. "Whatever _this _is … we can deal with it. Later." Like I will, mentally. For the next four hundred years. "But first _you _are washing and _I _am making breakfast and then _you _will eat it. And if you don't … then I'll make _sure _I put salt in it."

He is frowning. So I hammer my advantage home: "_Lots _of salt. Now, I'm going to take some pain killers because my arm hurts and- wow, your fist looks so much better than last night. Right. Never mind. Now go to the bathroom and do whatever you have to do, _please_. I'm begging you, Bucky. And after that we'll have breakfast and sort out whatever needs to be sorted out."

He's looking at the wall again. I want to tap him on the shoulder but … I'm scared, alright. Of him. Because when I look at his metal arm I see a clenched fist and I see it rise and fall, rise and fall and I hear the smack of metal against cheek.

_No, no Ida … it was Shaun. Not me. He did it to Shaun. Not me. He saved me._

"Bucky?"

"Okay," he says and I give him a smile – a big beaming one that is out of place here. Here with the _soothing _green wall with names upon names written on it. The names of the dead. I wonder-

No, Ida. It doesn't bear thinking.

Breakfast.

He has cereal. I have porridge. We both sip from cups filled with scalding coffee.

"Hey … Bucky?"

His eyes meet mine. I swallow nervously, pretending it's the painkillers stuck in my throat. "Thanks."

A brief frown and then he remembers what I'm thanking him for.

"You … you saved me and, and I, well … you didn't add a name. To the wall, I mean. You … did good." Sure, Shaun is in a coma, but he isn't another name on the wall. And_ he_ stopped when I called.

"So … thanks, Bucky."

He nods slowly.

I take a sip from my coffee. Aunt Becky isn't up yet.

A spoonful of porridge.

Yeah, this needs more honey.

And for this moment in time we have a strange, fragile kind of peace that feels as delicate as a butterfly's wing.

Yes, there's a crack in the living room wall, and yes, there are names (so many names) scrawled in black ink on my bedroom wall. Yes, he has a metal arm and I have bruises - of mind and body. But … right now. Right now the coffee is scalding, my porridge needs more honey and we are both being silent, and we are both … being normal.

For a little while.

Please … I hope this lasts.

But of course it won't.

But for now … my chest doesn't hurt quite so much.

I give a small smile to Bucky and take another sip of coffee.

Goodness, but it's hot.

* * *

**A/N:** A huge thank you to everyone who has taken the time to review this story. And follow. And favourite. Thanks. One more, folks, one more chapter and the end of _Part One: Jury_ will have been reached. And then off into _Part Two: Judge_ we'll go ...


	7. Chapter 6 - Red Paint

**Red Paint**

"… _darn you Hollywood, for making me believe that all bad guys have terrible aim."_

I can't believe this is actually happening.

Blood. Blood is everywhere. I've got it on my hands, on my torso, on my arms. How are you supposed to fix a bullet wound? Apply pressure and wait for medical assistance?

Great. _No one _mentioned the fact that when you apply pressure your hands aren't exactly free to _call _911 - hence, no medical assistance.

There is a scream and Bucky has, has … well, he's punched someone. Clear over the garbage bins and through a window.

Clearly he isn't going to be the one to call 911.

We're behind that hardware store.

I should have stayed on the couch this morning.

The kid is breathing strangely now – great, whistling breaths. I push down with my hands, feel the warm blood ooze between my fingers.

"Hold on, honey," I tell the bleary eyed teen. "You're going to be alright." She's looking up at me, dazed and bewildered. I sniff and hope that somehow, this is a dream. I look up. There's a man with a knife behind Bucky. He leaps forward, with blade ready.

"Watch out!" I screech.

But even as the words leave my mouth, Bucky has turned and whacked the man over. One punch and guy goes down like a toppled tree. How … how did he _do _that?

The crack of a gun sounds behind me. I duck – too late. Strange, bullets don't whistle; they crack and by the time you have warning, they have already 1) hit you, 2) killed you or 3) missed you.

Or, in my case, there is option one and a half – graze you. My shoulder, to be exact. I look down and notice the thin line of red that has cut itself through my white, rose-printed top and is spreading like a river overflowing its banks.

Oh. Wonderful, I think dazedly. After all that kerfuffle in high school, _now _would be the time I turn into a poet.

And also: darn _you _Hollywood, for making me believe that all bad guys have terrible aim.

In a blink, Bucky has moved and I hear a clonk as a gun hits the ground, followed by a thud that signals its owner's fall.

Three figures emerge through a doorway, another appearing behind that broken window. Guns are fired and it's like I'm in a strange, unreal dream. A bullet sears my ear – a burning touch - and I duck, pushing my hands down harder on the girl's stomach. Her top is soaked with dark red and- and- her eyes are open and fixed, a little frown wedged between her brows.

She's dead. The fact hits me like a sledgehammer. I don't hear anything else. Only see her - her face. I hear no hard-drawn breathing, even though I strain for the sound of it.

I push harder on her wound, maybe, maybe I just need to add a little more pressure and her eyes will flicker again and her pale brown face will be flushed with colour.

Just push down a little harder, Ida.

You can do this.

_Auntie_, I can hear my childish voice asking. _Why do people die?_

My arm is snatched, the world whirls and it takes me a moment to realize that someone - oh. It's Bucky - has hauled me over his shoulder.

Everything tilts and it takes another moment to realize that he's tossed me into a dumpster; the one by the alleyway's opening.

It's so cold. I'm shivering and my teeth are chattering like the rattling lid of a pan of boiling water. Fine – the weather isn't cold but_ I'm_ cold. A paradox. No, no it's not – it's shock.

I hear gunshots and feel the dull thud as bullets dent my shelter.

How did this happen … how the_ heck_ did this happen_?_

**How It Happened **

by

**Ida's **[very helpful] **Memory**

_Conversation between Bucky Barns and Ida Proctor: _

**Ida: **Hey, Bucky. You know … er, we didn't get those clothes for you, right? Shall we pop out and get some?

**Bucky: **…

**Ida: **Bucky, honestly. Sitting and staring at the wall isn't healthy … particularly _that _wall.

**Bucky: **It's what I did.

**Ida: **[laughs a little nervously] Yeah, [clears throat] I know. But … you still need clean clothes.

**Bucky: **[words omitted due to content (though perhaps they were Russian, in which case: aszchlsdjfsk)] has that got to do with it?

**Ida: **Er. Nothing. But – look, you've been wearing those clothes for days now and-

**Bucky: **I'll get some more.

**Ida: **That's the spirit! Come on I'll grab a sweater and then-

**Bucky: **Later.

**Ida: **…

**Bucky: **Ida. Leave.

**Ida: **Wha-? Alright. I'll leave you alone but, but I'll be back. I promise. And, listen … I'm going to go for a drive, and just in case you want to come … I'll wait five minutes for you, outside. And not a minute after. Okay … so … er … see you.

_Ten minutes later, in the old green van:_

**Ida: **Bucky! Hey … I wasn't expecting you.

**Bucky: **…

**Ida: **Fine, I was _hoping _you'd come and- never mind. Let's go.

**Ida: **[stalls van] Ha, I mean it's the van … it's always like … this. Sometimes.

**Bucky: **…

**Ida: **[mutters] You don't have to look so darn interested.

**Bucky: **[after several minutes] I can hear you.

**Ida: **[sighs heavily] I just can't win …

_Driving past neighbourhood where Ida heard gunshot:_

**Ida: **I rang 911 here, once. Two - er, three? – days ago. And I'm pretty sure I head a gun being fired.

[sounds of shots heard]

**Ida: **Like that – it really sounded just like tha- oh. Oh no. _It sounded just like that! _Bucky - my cell phone, quick! Call 911. It's in my bag. This is a gang war. Or, or, or a terrorist attack. Nononono.

[Bucky opens door and jumps out of moving vehicle]

**Ida: **_Bucky! _What on earth are y-?! The van's still running, you moron. I mean, no – you're not a moron. Sorry. Oh great, where's he-

[Ida slams on breaks, scans neighbourhood]

**Ida: **Where did he go? [mutters] Aunt Becky is going to _kill _me.

[climbs out of van, locks door]

_Conversation between Ida and her Conscience:_

**Ida: **This is probably a bad idea. I'm going to be shot. Killed. Slain by a bullet. My blood will paint everywhere red.

**Ida's Conscience: **You can't just leave him. You _know _what happened last time. If you do leave him, I will torment you for the rest of your life.

**Ida: **… gonna _die._

**Ida's Conscience: **Torment … for the rest of your existence. Every moment. Every breath. Every time you close your eyes. Every time you try to sleep. Every second of every day … tormented.

**Ida**: I am so doomed. There are literally gunshots sounding every second.

**Ida's Conscience: **Walk faster!

**Ida: **Alright, alright I'm going. _Everything's gone so quiet … _this is so, so strange. And scary. But mostly scary.

**Ida's Conscience: **Oh no! What if we _do_ die – who will look after Aunt Becky? Turn back! Turn back! Call 911 and _leave_.

**Ida: **Philip will look after her. And I _can't _call 911 – because of Bucky. I've got to find him and stop him from … from … something.

**Ida's Conscience: **[admiringly] You make a _very_ good martyr.

**Ida: **[approaches hardware store, cautiously. Nears renewed sounds of shouting, shooting and swearing] Oh yeah? Well, you are clearly very delusional.

The next few moments pass in a blur. Ida recalls only stumbling once (however, she did this three times and stubbed her toe once) but remembers (vividly) coming out from the small alleyway at the side of the hardware store and finding a large space behind it, that looked like a mutation of an abandoned warehouse (with no roof) and a graffiti skate-park.

And also a morgue.

Not that Ida has ever been to a morgue before. But this is a mutated form of one. Four bodies lie in unnatural, tangled positions on the floor.

From the shelter of her alley, she can see that there are people hiding behind garbage cans, in doorways and behind piles of rubbish and abandoned crates. With guns, firing at each other.

And Bucky.

Well, they fire _mostly _at Bucky.

Bucky who is a blur; Bucky who looks like a very, _very _frightening action hero; Bucky who is currently leaping from a low roof and onto an unsuspecting baggy-pants wearing, gun-toting man's back.

Ida – always normal, always sensible and _always _sane – becomes, at this point at least, convinced that her mind has been shipped off to LaLa Land. These things just. Don't. Happen. To. Her.

Well, obviously life didn't get the memo.

Because they _are _happening.

That's it, she tells herself. I'm going to get my cell phone. This is really, _really _bad.

Guns are shooting and a girl with spikey black hair and ears covered with more piercings than skin races from behind a dumpster, across the opening, towards Ida.

She crumples and Ida belatedly hears the shot. She can't help but run forward, can't help but stare, panicked at the red spot which spreads and spreads over the girl's stomach.

Apply pressure, she thinks, phone forgotten.

But then guns are fired, knives are thrown. Bucky tosses someone through a window. Ida gets shot – and is very, very lucky. Twice. The girl, less so.

And then Bucky throws Ida into a large dumpster.

And that – that is where she is now.

**Remembered by:** Ida's [in no way faulty] Memory

**With thanks to:** Ida, Ida's Mind, Ida's Conscience and Bucky.

I'm alone in a dumpster, trying not to think about what is beneath me, trying not to imagine what's going on around me. I move, slightly and slowly. Oh – look. I can see the sky. That cloud looks like … I see the dying girl's face again; the way her eyes begged for something whilst her mouth moved and only whimpers came out.

The way everything stopped (her breathing, the look in her eyes) and I didn't save her.

No, no – mustn't think. _Must _not think.

Another bullet hits the dumpster. Someone swears and I hear pain in his voice over the thudding of my heartbeat.

That someone is close by. I can see the hand – pale and white and coarse - gripping the side of my refuge, at my head's end. Fingers with the nails bitten to the quick.

The other hand comes over.

Oh.

Uh.

Um.

There … is a gun in that hand. Loosely held. Pointing at me.

At my head.

At the head which is mine.

_My _head.

What _do_ I do?

What do I_ do_?

I can't move. That's for sure.

Alright, he hasn't pulled the trigger yet. Break it up, Ida. Break up the problem like you do in customer service. And breath – you know, the little thing that keeps you alive? Yeah? That thing. Do it. Oh, wonder of wonders, I've forgotten how.

Nope, there it is.

Right. So, if you keep still then … he won't notice yo-

He's resting his head against his hands. I can see a mop of dull, brown hair. If he raises his head he's going to be faced with the view of a petrified woman covered in blood, in a dumpster.

Don't raise your head, I chant in my mind. Don't raise your head.

Please.

So, _of course_, he does.

I'm never being polite again.

He has black bruises beneath sunken eyes, his face is covered in red blotches and his hair is scraggly and thin.

It happens in a moment – a thousandth of a second. I'll never know what keeps me here and what stops me from being blown head first into eternity.

I move, you see. Jack-knife into a sitting position as the whole dumpster shudders with a shot. And I don't stay still – I'm on my feet and with the speed of a startled hare or deer I launch myself over the end of the dumpster.

Another bang.

Searing pain.

No time for it.

A quick survey of the … yard? shows me the bodies lying on the floor. I'm in a crouch with my back against the dumpster and a rough bit of wall touching my left arm. I can't see anyone – just the bodies on the floor.

But I can hear _him_.

I can't run else I'll have a bullet in my back quicker than you can say 'we're not in Kansas anymore'. No, time to put my non-existent black belt to good use.

The best defence is a good offense. I hope.

Thoughts run like ticker-tape on caffeine through my mind, yet everything is so slow. This is someone else's life, I think as I hear the crunch of footsteps on broken glass; not mine. I'm watching a movie. This isn't me.

I'm in an invisible fog. Watching someone's life through a window pane.

Everywhere _hurts_.

This is real, I think. And I wish it wasn't.

I want to give up, but I can't.

I want to lie down and remember that girl's face. No, I want to forget. Give in. I'm _so _scared. My hands are shaking. My breathing rattles. My heart is beating so loudly that my ears are filled with its thump. I can't do this.

I can't.

I think of Bucky. Of Aunt Becky.

'_For England and St George!' _echoes faintly in a distance chamber of my head. (Really, my mind has no reverence for crucial moments.)

And then I see the tip of his shoe. A heartbeat. My left hand clutches at something.

In one motion I grab the rim of the dumpster with my right hand, haul myself up and bring what is in my left hand down _hard_ onto his upper arm.

He goes down, spasming almost, clutching at his arm.

It was glass, I realize dumbly.

It was glass, I think as I stare at the blood trickling down my hand.

I've killed him, I think.

Then – no. He isn't dead. He's rolled up into a ball. Moves about. Jerking convulsively and swearing like a sailor in a hoarse voice which rises at the end of every word. Crying like a wounded animal. Clutching at his arm. Doing all these things in seconds, in moments, whilst I stand and feel like I'm reading about this. This isn't me here. It can't be me.

Someone swears behind me and I grab the fallen gun off the ground (and feel the gravel clog my fingernails and the rough concrete scrape the backs of my fingers) and swivel.

(I've watched movies, action movies, you know. Only here there is no choreographed fight scenes – only instinct. And precious little at that.)

She's got a gun too.

She's wearing a blue 'Hello Kitty' tank top. Choppy blonde hair frames a snarling face with decaying teeth and spitting eyes. Her arms are skinny and you can see the difference between the wiry muscle and the flesh which hangs loose.

Paradoxes. Again.

"Drop the gun," she says.

She curses when I don't.

She thinks I'm being stubborn.

I'm not. I'm not.

I can't let go.

I _can't._

So we stand with guns trained on each other. Mine is heavy and wavers and I feel the trigger with my slick and wet fingers. Her gun is steady.

My fingers convulse; shaking so, so badly.

I pull the trigger.

I don't know _why _I do it – maybe it's the shaking of my hands, or a slight movement of the girl opposite me that causes my mind to spasm in panic and my finger to jerk and pull at the metal.

I pull the trigger.

And the girl opposite disappears in a blur even as a gun fires. She just goes … sideways. Oh. It's Bucky. He's taken her out. Tackled her like a football player.

I lower the gun.

And he straightens. She's gasping on the ground.

This is-

I can't-

I-

There are sirens in the distance – piercing as they come ever closer. Bucky is at my side, pulling me by the arm.

"Run!" he barks.

I really can't do it. Everywhere hurts. Everywhere aches.

The world is as real and as sharp as glass cutting my skin. It hurts too much.

I think I'm going to be sick.

The sirens are closer, so close that they overwhelm my ears and all of a sudden the world swirls and twists again and I feel the solid metal of Bucky's arm as he chucks me over his shoulder and runs.

I watch – upside down – as we leave that awful place. He's taking me away – away from the alleyway, from the dumpster. I have a nice view of the ground, broken bricks and – was that a _needle? _We're on a tiny road now and Bucky's still running. I'm jerked and jogged but he runs with a strange smoothness and in his calmness I find a meagre ration of strength.

And then suddenly I'm placed on a hard surface and I blink.

I'm sitting on a bike; straddling a motorbike, to be more accurate.

There is no time to think, I nearly fall forwards but Bucky slides in in front of me and I lean against him. He does … something fiddly with whatever is up front and the engine rumbles.

"Put your feet up," he tells me and I blink – huh?

There is a shout and I turn – look down the narrow strip between two old grizzly buildings towards where … it ... happened.

A figure is there, clad in blue.

A cop.

I feel a jolt of relief: the police – they'll make everything better … won't they?

But suddenly we are flying forwards and zooming down narrow streets and zipping around corners and the wind whips my hair and I clutch at Bucky, feel the roughness of his jacket and realize that whatever we do, we can't go to the police – because how on earth can I explain it all away?

My memory shows me a picture of a green wall and so many names.

What would they _do _to him?

I hold onto Bucky and close my eyes.

Right. I need to make sense of this, this, well – whatever just happened.

Making Sense of the Thing Which Just Happened:

1. Clearly we interrupted some sort of … gang battle?

27. Why did Bucky jump out of the car?

412. I stabbed someone in the arm. With some glass

699. Why didn't I call 911? Dumb. So very dumb.

10,589. I _shot _at someone.

8,005,042. In conclusion … I have no idea what just happened.

The engine slows and then cuts and I open my eyes to see that we are at the back of some apartments. Great. Another alley. (If I wasn't so weary I would say that I really, _really _dislike alleyways.) There is a fire escape – grey and rusted – stretching upwards.

Bucky gets off the bike and pulls me off too. The bike falls to the floor with a dull clunk and suddenly I'm hefted up and – woo! I'm on the fire escape and the ground is down there and I am up here and this is clearly a Very Bad Idea.

Bucky leaps up, catches hold of the lowest bar and hefts himself onto the fire escape with me. He gives me a look and his eyes are cold, but maybe that is just me. Everything is cold right now.

"Wha-. Where are we?"

"At the back of your apartment."

Okay then.

He puts his arm around my shoulder and lifts me up. He glances behind me.

"You're shot in the backside."

"Oh," I say dazedly as we go upwards, each footsteps making a muted clang. "Really?"

"Yes."

"Mm'kay."

Another flight of winding metal steps. There is a dragon in my stomach and it twists and turns and I rather think that the contents of my stomach wish for an abrupt relocation to someplace more … airier.

"It's just a scratch," he says.

Another footstep.

This is like climbing Everest.

Honestly, it is.

"That's nice," I say and sniff. Somewhere in between climbing out of my green van and being dumped on the back of a motorbike my eyes have been overflowing with liquid and my cheeks are damp. Very damp.

It feels like days, months – years, but we are here. Bucky opens a window (how, I don't pay much attention and to be brutally honest, I don't much care) and we are suddenly surrounded by familiar walls.

Green soothing walls.

But even these look alien to me – the bed has moved, the wall bears the names of dead people and I haven't slept surrounded by green for a week.

But still, I leave Bucky staring at the wall and force myself to go to the bedroom door and call Aunt Becky.

"Yes, dear?" she responds from the living room and her dear, _dear _voice makes me want to bawl helplessly.

I walk – not without great effort and aid from the walls – to the living room and peer around, not so that she can see my body, but so that I can see her.

She's knitting and doesn't look up when my head pops into view.

"I didn't hear you come in" she says.

"We- er," I can't tell her. I honestly can't.

So many stupid 'cannots' I've been running into today.

"I'm just going to … change and put the dinner on."

She's reached a difficult point in her pattern and so she peers at her handiwork (a cream sweater, for Bucky no doubt), tuts under her breath and speaks absently: "Alright then. Is Bucky well?"

"Yeah," I say and I think my voice cracks. "I think so."

I turn away and look down the hall.

Huh.

I walked aided by the walls and, and where I put out a hand to hold myself up … is a trail of smeared red. Red paint. My blood on the wall.

No, not all of it.

That poor kid's blood.

Painting my wall.

I hold back a sob.

Bucky appears from my bedroom and gives me an assessing look before walking forwards and hauling me back into my room.

"Where are your medical supplies?" he asks after dumping me on the bed.

"Kitchen, second cabinet above the counter. On the left."

He disappears, leaving me just to sit and stare.

And then he's back and he's disinfecting and stitching and handing me painkillers and I feel swept up in a blur and don't even blink when I have to shift so that he can stitch the wound on my bottom and swamp it with enough disinfectant to sterilise a sewage plant.

I'm sure, in another time and another place I'd find this mightily embarrassing - but right now? Right now I'm _done_.

"Why did you get out of the van?" I ask him with no accusation in my voice. Just bland inquiry.

He raises his head from tending to my shoulder.

"I thought … I-" he bends his head again and I feel the cold touch of metal fingers on my arm and the sting of a needle piercing my skin.

I look at the wall and see the names.

"I thought I was in a mission. It was a …"

"Flashback?" I suggest.

"No," he says and snipes the thread. Huh. I have green stitching. Green to go with my room. Wonder where he found the thread. I blink. "A memory. I was … a little caught up. The sound of the guns … reminded me of something."

"Oh."

We don't speak for a little while and I can hear the noise of the television – Aunt Becky must have just switched it on. _"… the so called 'Kid-Napper' is now in police custody … " _booms out a newsreader and then his voice fades and I know that Aunt Becky has lowered the volume.

I remember seeing one of his victims in the paper. So they found him after all. I hope they found his victims. Hope that they are alive.

An image of a pale brown face flashes in front of my eyes and I fight it and force the overwhelming feeling of distraught sadness backwards.

Bucky speaks: "You lost blood – not enough to need a transfusion. Stay in bed awhile. Rest."

"The bike," I say. "What are you going to do with it?"

My shoulder is bandaged. Now it's my hand's turn. My head is swimming and I feel faint and sick. But I have important questions to ask: "And my van, what am I going to-"

"I'll get it back for you," he promises. And then: "Sorry."

"For what?"

"For," and he gestures to my wounds, "this."

"It's fine," I say automatically.

"The gun had no ammo left," he tells me and I look at him, puzzled.

"The gun you had," he clarifies. "It had run out of bullets by the time he reached you round the dumpster."

"So I stabbed him in vain?" I question. I cut my hand for _nothing_?

"No," he says quietly. "He would have killed you with the knife he had in his pocket."

My mind flits to another memory: "Wait a sec … does that mean that the gun that went off when you … tackled that girl-" (or woman. How old was she? Early to late twenties?) "-was actually … _hers_?"

"Yes."

"Ohhhhh …" I say and find myself teetering on the cliff of 'what ifs'. "Then … you saved my life."

"Yeah."

"More than once – you tossed me into the dumpster as well." Huh. Don't think I've said something like that before. My sense of humour gives a wane chuckle and disappears again.

"So … " I really want to clarify this. "Was it a gang war?"

"Perhaps. I found some drugs-"

"You _what?!_"

"I didn't take any," he assures me.

"_What?_" I choke.

"Didn't _bring_ any back with me," he corrects himself and finishes binding my hand. "They were probably contaminated."

"The cops will find them … right? The drugs, I mean."

"Yes."

"Oh my word – will they find my van? It's a little ways _from _where, where _it _happened but could they trace me to-"

"Maybe."

I give him a half-hearted glare for being so truthful (sometimes you just want to hear comforting reassurances, regardless of the truth). "I'm doomed."

"No," he says. "No - you're not."

And then he stands up, wipes his hands on a rag, goes to the wall, kneels down and picks up the pen. And writes 'Unknown x 3'.

He doesn't look at me when he stands again, but he directs a question at me: "Do you want a drink?"

"Yeah … " I smile at him – a very weak and a very wobbly smile. "Yes, please."

And he leaves the room.

I can still hear the low murmur of the TV. Aunt Becky's okay. But how to tell her about all this? Should I? She _clearly _is going to notice – I've got a band aid on my ear and bandage on my shoulder, to mention only _two _of my new collection of wounds. (Oh, and I'm also going to have trouble sitting down.)

I open the bottom drawer of the bedside table, look blankly at the romance book that stares up at me. Close the drawer. Cast my arm underneath my bed and feel for my teddy bear.

I don't care if it's childish but I curl up and bury my face in Winnie's musky fur. And then I lay very still for a very long time.

_End of Part One: Jury_

* * *

**A/N: **Whew! What a whopper of a chapter that was – and the most action packed one so far. Thank you for all the lovely reviews you've written and the follows and favourites you've clicked. I'm taking a wee holiday so look out for a new chapter of Paint in two weeks or so.

Oh, addressing a question that I've been asked a couple of times regarding the future of Bucky and Ida's relationship (platonic or love?): quite honestly, I'm not telling – I'm holding all the cards to my chest and revealing them one chapter at a time. No spoilers from me, I'm afraid : (


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